The Chosen One

“I’ve been holding the 82nd Airborne in reserve. They’ve been specially trained for house-to-house fighting. We can get the entire division there with enough smaller weapons to hold the bastards for a few extra days. By then, if we’re lucky, we’ll come up with a way to keep Cairo in our hands.”

“Are you certain, General? Will the 82nd be enough to keep the city from falling?”

“Yes, sir. We believe they’ll turn the trick. Should give us a couple more days minimum.”

“Except for the Marine landing, that’s the best news I’ve heard all week. Get the 82nd ready. I’ll make sure the CEOs of the major airlines understand the urgency of making their long-haul planes available as quickly as possible.”

“That’ll help, Mr. President.”

“What’s the latest word on the Marines?”

“They made definite progress after their landing. Covered about twenty miles before the enemy got organized and launched a series of counterattacks. Late last night, lead elements of the 2nd Marine Division captured a section of the Alexandria-to-Cairo highway and severed Mourad’s forces in the northern part of Egypt. With the Marines’ help, Alexandria appears to be solidly in the Egyptian army’s hands. In the past hours, however, the attacks against our positions have been relentless. One armored division after another has smashed into our lines. The Marines’ advance has come to a standstill. Our forces are settling into defensive positions in an attempt to hold off the Chosen One’s tanks. At the moment, things are pretty rough. But as long as our air superiority remains, we’ve got a decent chance of staying right where we are until the 1st Marine Division comes ashore in three or four days.”

“No possibility of the Marines reaching Cairo?” the president asked.

“None whatsoever, Mr. President,” General Greer said. “At least, not until the British arrive next week. Until then, we’ll be lucky to hold on to the territory we’ve gained. But you’ve got to realize that even though the Marines aren’t directly relieving Cairo, they’ve accomplished what we sent them there to do. Mourad’s had to turn thousands of his tanks away from the city to battle our forces. Without the Marines’ help, the Egyptian capital would’ve fallen last night. His tanks would’ve reached Israel today. So our plan’s working. We just need more time. If we can figure that part out, with seven hundred British Challenger tanks on the way, we might have a chance of winning this thing.”

“Sounds like you could describe our situation as desperation with a tinge of optimism.”

“Exactly, sir.”

“At the moment, I can live with that. What’s next?” the president asked.

“We’ve still no word on Mourad’s location,” the director of the CIA said. “Based on Pan-Arab radio traffic, we know he’s somewhere near Cairo, but so far we’ve struck out in locating him.”

“Keep looking, Chet,” the president said. “If we eliminate the Mahdi this thing will collapse. Without his leadership, Islam’s dreams of world conquest will be lost. So our top priority continues to be finding and killing the Chosen One. This is one war we can win by eliminating a single man.”

“We’ll stay on it, sir.”

“Do that, Chet. Find the sorry son of a bitch and take him out.”

“Yes, sir. He’s definitely near the battlefield. So we’ll spot him sooner or later.”

“Make it sooner.” The president paused. “Is there anything else?”

No one said a word.

“Okay, I won’t keep you any longer.”

The four stood to leave. The president looked at General Greer. “General, I’m curious. Will you give me an honest answer to an honest question?”

“I’ll try, Mr. President.”

“If you had to guess . . . What would you estimate our chances are of winning this thing?”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs paused. His answer was a truthful one. “At the moment, somewhere around fifty-fifty, Mr. President.”

18

2:57 P.M., OCTOBER 18

3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION

NEARING THE CAIRO–ALEXANDRIA HIGHWAY

With the Humvee in the lead, the modest formation of bone-weary Marines trudged the final miles toward the American defenses. So far they’d been lucky, surviving the arduous journey without any additional killed or wounded. Each prayed their good fortune would hold. This early in the North African campaign the front lines were ill-defined and porous. The rampaging enemy was taking full advantage of the situation. Roving bands of Pan-Arabs were making the Egyptian Sahara a fiercely inhospitable place.

Sergeant Joyce’s hands were wrapped around the .50-caliber’s grips. He was ready to squeeze the machine gun’s trigger at a moment’s notice. The Humvee’s fire team was anxious and wary. Should another assault come, it would be on them to repel the insurgents long enough for the depleted platoon to find cover and get organized.

During the twenty-mile trek, they’d successfully survived two marauding attacks. The first, from a battered pickup truck carrying four hooded men holding rifles and rocket-propelled grenades, had happened in the early hours of the march. At the initial sign of trouble, Joyce’s team rushed forward to engage the insurgents. The small skirmish was swift and decisive. The sergeant’s skillful men hurriedly dispatched their overmatched foe.

The second encounter had been far more serious. Halfway through their desert crossing, they’d stumbled toward three dozen jihadists waiting in ambush in a concealing ravine. The result could have been disastrous for the struggling remnants of Erickson’s men. Fortunately, two passing Cobra attack helicopters had spotted the trap moments before the enemy opened fire. With a life-stealing barrage from their Gatling cannons, the fearsome pair swooped in and destroyed the threat.

Behind the Humvee, the remaining ten Marines dragged through the shifting sands. Gunny brought up the rear, encouraging the floundering force to take another step. For seven difficult hours, the fourteen survivors of yesterday morning’s battle had made their way across the infinite desert toward the battalion’s defenses. Misery was painted on their grizzled features. The relentless winds tore at their stoic faces. The endless sojourn’s unmerciful heat pressed in upon them. It threatened to devour the haggard Americans.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Yet the dismal heavens were as dark as the bleakest New England January. A blanket of suffocating smoke, so thick it consumed every labored breath, covered the tedious landscape and overwhelmed the sun’s light. The smoldering corpses of destroyed enemy vehicles stretched to the horizon. Pan-Arab remains, twisted and rotting, cluttered the landscape. Some of the decomposing bodies had been in the sweltering Sahara for nearly three weeks. With so great a bounty, the vultures and carrion eaters had grown indifferent.

Death’s reviling stench clung to the exhausted platoon. Decay oozed into their sand-clogged pores and assailed their senses. The putrid smell of suffering and disease tore at their nostrils. Although the men on the ground couldn’t see them, the sounds of soaring aircraft filled the spiteful afternoon. Throughout the long hours, Super Hornets from the aircraft carriers Lincoln and Eisenhower flew sortie after sortie over the Nile Delta. Attack and reconnaissance drones crisscrossed the dingy heavens. At regular intervals, groups of lethal Cobras screamed overhead. The low-flyin

g merchants of death skimmed the dunes, tearing through the narrow valleys and treacherous landscape as they rushed toward the burgeoning battles. Artillery duels rumbled incessantly. With each painful stride Erickson took, the sounds of the fearsome struggles reached out for him. With every passing minute, the platoon grew closer to the menacing clashes.

The depleted lieutenant adjusted the fifty pounds he carried on his back. The pack’s straps dug into his slumping shoulders. It tore at his battered flesh. His left arm throbbed. Mind-numbing pain, sharp and unpredictable, flashed down his wounded biceps and surged toward his tingling fingers. The acidic air overwhelmed him. Dirt crept into every crevice of his distress-filled face. He raised his hand to tighten the filthy scarf covering his mouth and nose. The small cloth secure once more, the platoon leader removed his sunglasses and wiped the sweat from his brow.

It had been an extremely long day for the men of 3rd Platoon. And it was far from over.

A few hundred yards ahead, the glistening blacktop of the Alexandria-to-Cairo highway called to them. The beckoning conclusion to their extended effort was nearing.

“Sergeant Joyce,” Erickson said. “There’s a checkpoint up ahead. Drive up and see if they know where the battalion’s located.”

“Okay, Pitzer,” Joyce told his driver. “You heard the lieutenant. Get this thing in gear and let’s check it out.”

Kicking up clouds of sand, the Humvee raced ahead of the platoon. A quarter mile away, four Marines waited behind a sturdy sandbagged barrier on the edge of the multilane highway. The vehicle roared up and stopped.

“You guys in 2nd Recon?” Joyce asked.

“Yeah,” the corporal in charge of the checkpoint said. “Alpha Company.”

“Any idea where we’ll find battalion headquarters?”

“Straight up the road about three-quarters of a mile. You can’t miss them, they’re the ones with all the burning tanks in front of them.”

“Thanks. Pitzer, let’s go tell the lieutenant there’s less than a mile to go.”